


what is invisible to the Eye

by thewildwilds



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Character Study, Childhood, Coming of Age, F/M, Friendship, Kuzupeko - Freeform, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: “All grown-ups were once children… but only few of them remember it.”― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry





	what is invisible to the Eye

“Peko-chan!”

Fuyuhiko’s bare feet slap against the wooden deck as he hurries across the veranda to the servants’ quarters. He has both arms wrapped around a picture book, so wide it’s almost as big as his torso. It’s a little cumbersome to hold while running. He has to stop every few seconds to readjust his grip when it keeps slipping from his bouncing pace. “Peko-chan!”

He hasn’t even finished crossing the hall before Peko pops into view, smiling around the corner. A second later, Inoue pops out too, lips pursed into a thin line. Peko is supposed to be having lessons, he thinks. Inoue and his mother don’t like it when he takes Peko away from her lessons.

“Young master,” Inoue greets. “You’ve come to visit again.”

 _Visit_ is a loaded word. His parents don’t like it when he’s on this side of the estate too, for whatever reason. (Grown-ups don’t like a lot of things, it turns out.) They’d rather Peko come to _him,_ because it’s her job or something, but how is she gonna do that if she’s always stuck in boring old lessons? It’s much more convenient this way.

He shifts the book so that it’s tucked beneath his arm, and takes Peko’s hand with his free one. “We’re gonna go play,” he announces, with a steady stare. The book slips down further; he hefts it back up.

Inoue lets them go. She’s not happy about it, but she does. He’s learned what he can get away with when it comes to the servants. As he understands it, Peko is supposed to always be around when he needs her, and he always needs her, so there’s not much Old Hen Inoue can do about that.

They scurry to the den together, where they can escape the summer heat for a bit, but still enjoy the warm light.

“Look at this!” He lays the book down flat on the floor and sprawls out on his belly. “Aunt Mariko sent me this book in the mail!”

Peko sprawls out next to him, huddled close so she can see too. “What is it?” she asks. He flips to the first page. It’s colorful and pretty, greens and oranges and reds and every other color they could imagine.

“It’s a story. It’s about a boy who has a dream about a carp in a river. See?” His fingers trace the illustrations, the orange and white spots of the carp and the bright blue curve of the river. “Him and all his friends are trying to make it up the river. They try really hard, even though it makes them tired.” He flips the page. The tone of the picture has changed. Fish float belly-up in the river, splotches of gray within the blue. “See? A lot of them swim so hard they die along the way.”

“Why are they doing that?” Peko asks. There’s a quiver in her voice, like it’s all too upsetting.

“Because they wanna get to the top! They call it Dragons’ Gate up there. Look.” He points to different spots in the river, how each part has less and less fish until the orange-spotted carp is the only fish remaining near the end. “If they try really hard, and don’t give up, they can turn into a dragon.”

He flips the pages, one after another. The bright blue of the river gives way to a swirl of white as the clouds descend from the heavens. Orange and blue and white mix together. Before they know it, the orange-spotted carp transforms into a fierce white dragon, shining scales and gleaming eyes, right there on the page.

“Wow!” they enthuse, in tandem.

“He turned into a dragon!”

They flip back and forth between the pages a few times, just to see it happen again and again. It’s like magic, and yet it’s just pictures. Peko’s fingers trace the swooping illustration reverently. She touches her thumb to the bright orange-red of the dragon’s flaming brow. “Can that really happen? Can a carp really turn into a dragon?” Peko asks, one corner of her mouth pulled to the side.

“I dunno. Probably!”

He flips to the last page. “When the boy wakes up, he remembers his dream, and he makes one of those windsocks, and hangs it up, like on Children’s Day, so that it’ll turn into a dragon one day. That’s what the windsocks are for!”

The carp windsocks are one of his favorite things to see at the Children’s Day festival. He remembers begging for one for his room, and then being disappointed when it didn’t fly properly.

He shifts into a sitting position, and leans back on his hands. “Wouldn’t it be cool to see a carp turn into a dragon?”

“Yes! I wanna see it!”

“Me too!” He scrunches his eyebrows. “Maybe we can get another windsock on Children’s Day. A special one that will turn into a dragon.”

“That’s so far away…”

“I know…” He stares up at the ceiling, and considers it seriously for a second, but the idea eventually fades, like all his ideas eventually fade, and he moves onto something else. “Hey, so listen,” he says. “Mom says everyone’s coming over for my birthday next week. It’ll be your birthday party too, remember? Aunt Mariko can’t come so that’s why she sent my gift in the mail. Do you think Uncle Ashida is going to be there?”

Peko makes a face. “I hope not. I hate him.”

“Me too. He smells funny, and he makes Dad yell a lot, always.” He pushes himself to standing, dusting his hands on the knees of his pants. “Let’s play dragons in the garden!”

He leaves the book where it is while they run off to play. They chase each other around the grass together, soaking up the sun, until one of the servants comes to retrieve them for dinner.

The book goes missing in the next few days. He goes back to the den, but it’s not there where he left it.

At first he blames Natsumi. She’s always trying to take his toys, and she’s been more annoying than ever with his birthday coming up. When Natsumi insists that she doesn’t have his “stupid book,” he blames the staff next. Shimada is always messing up the order of his room, but searching through Shimada’s belongings turns up nothing. When he’s run out of people to blame, he screams. He yells and shouts and kicks up a fuss. His mother scolds him for making such a racket, and says that he should’ve taken better care of his things if he didn’t want to lose it.

He doesn’t bother hiding his grumpiness for the remainder of the day. It’s not _fair._ How was he supposed to know something like this would happen?

He lets his feet carry him to the servants’ quarters. If his family doesn’t care, then he’ll find somebody who will. “Peko-chan!” he hollers before he’s even made it to the other side of the estate. “Peko-chan!”

She doesn’t come bounding out to meet him like she normally does. That’s weird.

The door to the main room, where the servants sleep, is closed, but he can still hear Inoue yelling from the other side. His steps falter briefly. It’s the _bad_ yelling, like when his parents are having a fight over grown-up things. Carefully, he creeps up, slides the door open a bit, and peeks in.

Peko stands before Inoue with her head bowed. Her face is pinched and red, and she has her fingers twisted around the edges of… his picture book!

She looks like she’s a second away from bursting into tears. Inoue is a looming presence before her. He can’t see her face from this angle, but judging by the tone of her voice, it must be scary.

“—from the young master, of all people!! Just what were you thinking?!” Inoue screams.

“I— I d-didn’t mean—”

Inoue jerks the book straight out of Peko’s hands; Peko stumbles forward a step just from the force. That’s enough to break the fragile barrier keeping her tears at bay, but Inoue doesn’t let up one bit. “We have _no_ tolerance for thieves on my staff! You ungrateful, wretched little girl! Just you wait until Mistress Kuzuryuu hears about this. She’ll decide how to deal with you. You’d be lucky to still have a roof over your head after today—”

That’s about as much as he can take. Fuyuhiko slides the door open all the way and stomps inside. “Hey! Why’d you take Peko-chan’s book?” he demands.

Inoue whirls around, her next admonition dying on her tongue. “Young master, you are mistaken, this is _your_ book.”

“No! I gave it to her!” He tears the book away from Inoue and shoves into Peko’s trembling arms. “See? It’s hers! You can’t yell at her anymore!”

Peko stares at him with big, dewy eyes. She looks confused, and sad, and a lot of things he wishes she weren’t in that moment.

Inoue, on the other hand, looks unconvinced. “But— Young master— Why would you give her one of your books?”

“What’s it matter why? I wanted to give it to her, so I gave it to her, that’s it! I wanted to! You don’t gotta tell my mom anything!”

Very little changes in Inoue’s expression. Her eyes flicker from him, to Peko, back to him. Fuyuhiko stands his ground, and tries to look intimidating, like his father, like his grandfather. He tilts his chin up and narrows his eyes like he’s seen them do, even to people bigger than them.

Eventually, Inoue gives in with a sigh. “Very well, then. But young master, you know very well you should not be giving a mere tool any of your belongings. It’s not proper.”

Whatever. He takes Peko by the hand. “We’re gonna go play now.”

He quickly leads Peko away from the servants’ quarters and Old Hen Inoue. She struggles to keep up with his pace, his book still tucked in the crook of her free arm.

“Fuuchan,” she sniffles behind him. “Fuuchan, wait.”

He stops and turns to face her.

She holds the book out flat with both hands. Her face is splotchy, and she won’t look him in the eye. The tears from earlier have dried on her cheeks, but they threaten to start anew at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I only wanted to look at it for a little bit… Just a _little_ bit… And then, and then, I wanted to see how to get you a carp for your birthday, like in your book, so we could see it turn into a dragon. I wanted it to be a surprise, that’s all. I didn’t mean to take it. I… I…” She ends on a wail, _“I’m so sorry—”_

She crumples into noisy, messy tears. The book falls back against her side. The tears come so hot and free, and she can’t seem to wipe them away fast enough. He’s seen Peko cry a handful of times, but never like this, ugly and loud.

She looks just like he does when he cries.

His palms are sweaty in the summer heat. He wipes his hands on the back of his robe. Peko’s hair sticks to her cheeks. He reaches up and rubs the top of her head in a soothing, circular motion. It doesn’t seem to do much because she keeps crying.

And then he remembers: “Hey, Peko-chan, listen! On my way over, I saw a hummingbird’s nest! It was in the bushes, in the garden.”

She doesn’t respond right away. She’s still crying, sad little whimpers drawn from the back of her throat, but her hiccups abate long enough for her to murmur, “… Really?”

“Yeah! If we hurry we can probably see the eggs!”

It’s enough, he thinks. The tears slowly stop coming down so strong. She wipes her eyes with the back of a tear-dampened sleeve—her face is still splotchy—and then she says, “Okay.”

She takes his hand this time, small fingers wrapped around his. She clutches his book with her other arm. “Are you mad at me?” she asks.

“No way!” he answers. He clumsily wipes at a damp spot on her cheek. She blinks rapidly, droplets still clinging to her lashes.

He leads her into the garden, out towards the southern wall, where he saw the hummingbird nest tucked in the branches of an azalea bush. Peko smiles, finally, when she catches sight of the little eggs, and the incident with the picture book is forgotten.

 

 

 

(Eventually, Children’s Day rolls around the next year. By then he’s already grown tired of the book about the carp who became a dragon. He had grown tired of it as soon as he’d seen all his other presents on his birthday. Peko would bring it up, on occasion, but conversations about the story would never last long.

(On the day of the festival, Peko tugs on his sleeve, and points to all the colorful carp windsocks flying in the breeze. It holds his attention for all of five seconds until he catches sight of the food vendors selling red bean mochi.

(Peko doesn’t seem to mind when he drags her towards the stalls.

(He’s not sure why the book ever mattered in the first place.)

 

 

 

Fuyuhiko looks between two of his suits, inspecting each one in turn. After a moment of careful consideration, he decides on the black, two-button virgin wool suit with the navy blue tie, and starts to get dressed.

He’s fourteen today. One step closer to inheriting the clan. The past few years have been nothing but work, with his old man breathing down his neck like a hawk. He could do without all the constant monitoring. He doesn’t need to be babysat to prove he can lead this family all on his own.

Later it’ll be dinner at Ishida Kitanozaka. His folks have rented out the whole restaurant for the night. It’s the safest insurance they can afford when his uncles or cousins or brothers get too drunk for their own good.

He remembers his cousin Hisoka’s fourteenth birthday. They’d poured him bottle after bottle of sake, as a show of becoming a man.

Fuyuhiko’s stomach knots up. His first taste of sake had been dreadful. Uncle Yasuda had offered him a cup over the winter break two years ago. He had nearly spat out the whole thing, but managed to swallow, to save face; it tasted _horrendous._ Uncle Yasuda had laughed and offered him another, and another, and another; Fuyuhiko had been too proud to turn any of them down. Later, when no one else was in sight, he had fled to the gardens and puked all down his front. Now just the smell alone makes his stomach turn. He’s not sure what he’ll do if anyone offers him anything to drink tonight.

He squints at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look any different from when he turned thirteen. Or twelve. Or eleven, for that matter. He’s a little taller, maybe, but not by much.

He tries squaring his shoulders and angling his chin. He tries loosening his tie and slouching. He tries straightening his posture and puffing up his chest.

Nothing works. He wishes this suit didn’t make him look so goddamn scrawny. It’s custom-tailored Armani and it does nothing but emphasize how small he still is. No amount of training or working out helps.

There’s a voice on the other side of the door as he’s fiddling with the buttons of his jacket.

“Young master?”

“What?”

She takes it for the okay that it is. Peko slides open the door with her head bowed. She doesn’t lift her head even when he looks at her from the mirror.

“What is it?” he repeats.

“Congratulations on your birthday,” she says. It’s not such a weird comment, maybe. Live hard, die young, that’s the yakuza way. One more year alive is a pretty damn big achievement all things considered. It’s the second part that makes him cringe: “Thank you for allowing me to serve you for another year.”

The _last_ thing he would want today, out of all days, is another reminder that she’s his fuckin' _property_ or something. It wasn’t like this when they were kids. She was different, somebody unrecognizable to the girl she is today. But he’s different now, too.

Maybe that’s the problem though. Maybe it’s foolish not to expect change.

“Who gives a shit about that?” he grumbles, straightening the knot of his tie. It’s lumpy on one side, and ugly.

Peko nods, solemnly.

He expects that to be the end of it, but she doesn’t move from her spot at the door. He catches her watching him from the mirror. “What? You got something else to say?”

She bows her head again, and it seems more out of embarrassment than a show of submission. It’s silly, but, just for a second, a part of him thinks she’ll try and maybe… offer him a birthday present? Or— _fuck_ —say something surprising… or… _something…_

She does surprise him. Just not in the good way. “Will you be all right on your own at dinner tonight?”

“… Yeah. _Why?”_

Normally Peko is forced to wait outside when they go out to eat. She’s _definitely_ never allowed to eat at the same table as them. (He’s never been able to circumvent this rule, even when they were kids.)

“I understand that many of the family will be joining the celebration tonight. I wanted to be sure that you would be all right attending on your own. I will not be by your side, so—”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” He finally turns to face her, brows drawn low.

“… Young master?”

“What? You don’t think I can handle a bunch of drunks? Or the executives in the home branch? Or my _own goddamn family?”_

Her words come out in a rush. She bows so low her braids point straight at the floor. “That was not my implication at all, young master. Forgive me for my transgressions. You are very capable at handling your own affairs.”

He growls in the back of his throat, and turns back to the mirror. His fuckin’ kid-face glares back at him. Has she heard something from his parents? Have Isobe and Mochizuki been badmouthing him again? Have the maids been gossiping behind his back?

—Or does she really think he’s that pathetic?

Somewhere in the jumble of his mind, Peko’s voice cuts through the haze. “Young master, have I upset you?”

It’s insane. Peko always has a way with making the problem about her and _not,_ all at the same time. She twists his words around until he doesn’t know what he means anymore. She harps on about her precious _duty_ and _honor,_ and it always, _always_ highlights what he can’t _fix,_ what he’s too powerless to fix yet.

It’s him. He’s the problem.

Sometimes he _wishes_ he could be mad at her. Actually, really mad. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with this burning in his chest, and this lump in his throat, and this weight like he’s swallowed a ten-ton brick whole.

It’s selfish. It’s not her fault. He knows that.

(Does he wish it _were?)_

(… _Does_ he?)

“Young master?”

“ _What?”_

“Have I—”

“I _heard_ you the first time, okay? Would you just— How can you— No. Okay? _No.”_ His head’s a shitstorm, a pile of jagged pieces that won’t fit together. “Look, just— just drop it. I don’t have time for this.” He undoes his tie and tries to knot it again. A full Windsor was a bad idea. “I’ll see you at the restaurant.” (But he won’t.)

She bows one last time and slides the door closed.

 

 

 

(It was Peko who had found him that night in the garden, hunched over, watery vomit soaking into his shirt. He’d glared behind his blurry vision, poised to scream at her to _get the fuck out of his sight_ , but at the time, the snipe on his tongue had withered away, second in priority to the bile swiftly rising in his throat.

(She’d made a path for him to the bathroom, checking to make sure that no one would see him in that state. They’d almost been caught, once, when one of the junior associates had stumbled outside for a phone call. Peko had quickly pinned him between her and the adjacent wall, to keep them both out of sight. He’d been too dizzy at the time to complain, but somewhere in the fog of it all, he’d still found room to feel embarrassed. He was sure she could smell the sickly mix of bile and sake all down his front; she didn’t complain.

(He spent the rest of the night retching into the sink, swearing to whatever higher being that was listening that he would never touch another bottle again if it meant he could stop feeling that awful. Peko stood watch outside.

(She never said a thing about it.)

 

 

 

Jabberwock is unbearably hot—that’s the trouble with being on a tropical island, and he’s not in any mood to go swimming to cool off. It’s even hotter than Kobe used to get, but maybe it’s just the aftereffects of the state they’ve put the country in.

The weight of the mason jar feels cool against his palms though. He handles it carefully as he crosses the halls, but he can’t help pressing his fingertips a little harder against the glass, just to feel that sharp, cool sting.

Sonia is sweeping dust out the front door with a worse-for-wear broom. She has her hair piled in an elaborate bun on top of her head. She spots him as he’s crossing through the lobby. “Kuzuryuu,” she calls, peering around the metal doors. She is momentarily distracted by the jar in his hands. “What is that you have there?”

“Stag beetle,” he answers simply. He doesn’t elaborate.

Sonia smiles knowingly nonetheless. “I see. Good luck then. And don’t forget about dinner tonight. We’re all looking forward to having you there.”

He waves a hand flippantly, already starting to walk away. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He squints at her from over his shoulder. “Just dinner, all right? I don’t want no goddamn party or nothing.”

The edges of her smile strain. “Of course.”

(It’s too early, for all of them. They have responsibilities now, priorities to work out, scars to mend. Gekkogahara and her team have only just arrived a month ago. Before that, they’d been a mess. It wasn’t the same as being in the simulation. They didn’t know how to cope with five different types of trauma, even bundled beneath one giant Enoshima-style umbrella.)

The simulation room is just as alien and uninviting as he’d left it. The whole room is always full of a green and blue glow, even during the day. It’s like being in an aquarium, or a test tube.

He drags a chair over to Peko’s pod, the metal legs screeching against the concrete floor. (He doesn’t bother keeping quiet, even when the attending technicians glare in his direction. It’s not like they want to let everyone sleep in peace.)

“Hey,” he says, falling heavily into the chair. “You still hanging in there?”

She doesn’t respond. That doesn’t stop him from talking about his day and the island and anything else that pops into his head in the moment. He talks about the unbearable heat and the color of the sky and the progress on his journal. It’s important to keep her updated, in the event that she can still hear him, even if she’s somewhere far, far from his reach.

“Oh yeah, check it out.” He holds the jar up, right where her line of vision would be. (They used to go bug-catching in the mountains when they were kids. That all came to an end after the kidnapping incident.) “Found this little guy outside. He was trying real hard to stay alive. I’ll let him go later, but I wanted to show you first.”

It’s a routine he’s given himself. There’s not much to do on the island, at least for now. It’s best to keep busy so the demons don’t catch up with him long enough to wear him down. He’s preoccupied himself with walking around the mostly barren island, exploring the beaches and caves. He seeks out any treasures he can find, little temptations to get her to come back, to see that the real world might not be so bad after-all.

“Hey, so listen,” he says, voice pitching lower. “I’m twenty-two today. In case you forgot.” Peko would never forget, of course. Not when she spent year after year thanking him for keeping her in his service.

No more of that. If she wakes—

— _when_ she wakes—

—they’ll have a long, long discussion about everything. For as long as it takes. He’ll dismantle the walls built between them with his bare hands, if he has to.

Peko’s head rolls to the side, pointed in his direction.

His breath hitches; he has to clench his fingers around his knees before he can get too excited. Small hints of movement are normal, Hinata says. It’s the surest sign that their former classmates are still hanging on. That’s about as far as he can say on the matter. Fuyuhiko has learned not to get his hopes up for any flutter of her lashes, the barest of twitches behind her eyelids (Owari had been _ecstatic_ when Nidai had moved enough to clench his hands into fists, only to have her hopes crushed when he still did not wake), but on this particular day, he dares to dream.

He leans in close, forearms balanced against his knees, and waits.

After a moment, when her brow creases, like she’s a little girl having an unpleasant dream, he leans in even closer. He can see himself in the reflection. (He’s a mess, really: lines beneath his eyes that weren’t there when he was a teenager. At least he looks older now.)

“Hey,” he murmurs. His breath fogs up the glass. “Y’know, just between you and me… I wouldn’t be mad at all if you decided to wake up today. Not even a little bit.” The machines beep and drone. “So how ‘bout it, huh? How ‘bout today? Does today feel like a good day to wake up?”

Her face goes back to neutral. There’s a light, at the corner of his eye, that blinks on and off. The machines still beep and the room still glows. Somewhere behind him, a technician tears a piece of paper along its perforation.

 _A long shot_ _, huh?_ He should’ve known better, probably.

“Okay,” he says, all the air whooshing out of him like a deflating balloon. “Okay. That’s okay.”

Dinner should be starting soon. Sonia will give him an earful if he’s late. He stands. “Maybe tomorrow will be better, huh?”

She doesn’t respond. The green glass of the pod makes her look otherworldly.

Optimism isn’t usually his gig. More often than not, he’d rather lay out his entire hand and deal with the odds; it’s always been easier that way. But if he doesn’t stay positive, now more than ever, then he has nothing at all.

He lays his palm over the glass, and tries to breathe in time with the rise and fall of her chest, and the beeping of the machines. And when he’s had his fill, he picks up the mason jar and leaves.

 

 

 

(“Dr. Tsukimori?” says one of the technicians. “We’ve picked up a slight irregularity in Patient Four’s routine ECG.”

(Tsukimori adjusts his glasses and peers at the screen. The numbers do look a bit odd compared to previous tests. “Has there been anything else?”

(“No. Nothing we’ve been able to monitor.”

(Just a fluke, most likely. A spike in heart rate could stem from any number of reasons. They’ll watch closely, to be safe, but for now, he sees no reason to panic. “Document the change, but maintain standard procedure. Her levels are still well within safe parameters. No need to report it.”)


End file.
